What We Carry

The papaya sat rotting on the countertop, its skin turning from gold to mush, just like everything else in this apartment. Marcus had bought it two days before he left, saying something about us needing tropical fruit, about us needing to try new things together. Now it sat there, a reminder of how easily things spoil when you stop paying attention.

I ended up at the community pool because it was the only place open past midnight where no one would ask if I was okay. The water was still, black glass reflecting the security lights. I hadn't brought a swimsuit—hadn't planned to swim—but found myself sitting on the edge, feet dangling in, watching the ripples distort my legs.

That's when the dog appeared. An old golden retriever, muzzle gray, one ear that wouldn't stand up. It padded over like it owned the place and lay down beside me, resting its chin on my knee. Its tag read "Buster." No other info.

"You too?" I asked. Buster thumped his tail once, agreement.

We sat there while I told him everything—how Marcus left because I wouldn't quit my job, how my mother called yesterday to say she was proud of me for the first time in thirty-five years, how I'd spent the last decade becoming someone I didn't recognize. The dog listened, occasionally nudging my hand with his wet nose.

"He loved baseball," I said suddenly. "Marcus. We went to Fenway twice a year. He'd keep score in this little notebook, like statistics meant something." I laughed, surprised by the sharpness of it. "God, I hated every minute. But I went. I always went."

Buster lifted his head, ears perked. A woman was walking toward us, calling his name. "There you are, you old thief." She was maybe sixty, wearing a bathrobe over pajamas. "Sorry if he bothered you. He escapes whenever my back is turned."

"No," I said. "He was exactly what I needed."

She looked at me then, really looked, in that way strangers do when they recognize something familiar in your face. "The papaya won't keep," she said, apropos of nothing. "You either eat it now or throw it out. Life's too short for letting things rot."

Then she and Buster were gone, and I was alone with the pool and the knowledge that some things can't be saved, only transformed. I went home and finally cut open the fruit. It was overripe, too soft, sweeter than anything had a right to be. I ate it standing over the sink, weeping for reasons I couldn't name.